


Conflagration

by 7iris



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Canon-Typical Violence, Female Alpha, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7iris/pseuds/7iris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Have fun while we're gone," one of the guards says, and shoots Coulson in the stomach. The door of the cell slams shut behind him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conflagration

**Author's Note:**

> Alpha!Natasha, beta!Phil, and omega!Clint. Warning for dub-con of the sex pollen/in heat variety.

"Have fun while we're gone," one of the guards says, and shoots Coulson in the stomach. The door of the cell slams shut behind him.

"Shit!" Clint says and catches Coulson as he stumbles. He eases Coulson down to the floor, letting him lean back against the wall.

"Give me your shirt," Natasha says.

"Why do I always have to take off my shirt?" Clint says, but he's already stripped to the waist.

"Because you don't have tits," she says. The wound is small and the bleeding is steady, not coming in pulses. She applies pressure with Clint's shirt.

She meets Coulson's eyes. "It's not bad. Small caliber bullet, it smells clean, and I'm pretty sure it missed the artery. You're not going to die any time soon."

"Reassuring," Coulson says, dry and a little breathless.

"Shit," Clint says again. He rubs absently at the injection mark on his shoulder. "So what do you think they dosed the two of us with? I don't feel anything."

Natasha doesn't answer. His scent has already changed. It makes her skin hot, makes want coil in her belly.

Coulson holds her gaze. "It's probably hormones to induce a heat," he says.

Clint is silent. "I'm on suppressants," he says finally.

"They're not working," Natasha says. She doesn't look at him, keeps her body angled away from him, keeps pressure on Coulson's wound.

"They want us to go into heat, and you to not be able to help us, or to kill yourself trying," Clint says.

"Yes. They only got one out of the three of us right, their intel is clearly sub-par," Coulson says.

Nobody is as calm with a gut wound as Coulson is, and a flash of protective rage takes her breath away, instincts she's spent so long controlling suddenly unchecked.

Coulson reaches out and Clint curls forward, pressing his cheek into Coulson's hand. "It's okay," Coulson says. He tugs Clint forward into a kiss, soft and gentle. "Let Natasha take care of you."

Clint shudders. "Why does this shit even exist?" he asks.

"Fertility treatments," Coulson says promptly. "IVF is more successful in omegas who've gone through a heat prior to implantation." His voice is steady; he sounds like he could recite percentages and p-values, and it's bizarrely reassuring.

Clint straightens up and meets Natasha's eyes.

"We could wait," she offers.

"For the cavalry?" He hesitates, and his hands flex on his thighs. "No. Now, before..."

"All right," she says. Coulson puts his hand next to hers on his wound, applying pressure, so she can pull away.

She peels her shirt off, uses it to wipe Coulson's blood off her hands, but leaves on her plain, white cotton bra. Clint is watching her, wide-eyed and wary.

"Just lie back and think of SHIELD," Coulson says, and they both snort.

Clint does lie back, though, shifting a little so his head brushes Coulson's thigh.

She makes herself move slowly, carefully, to straddle his waist. She lets herself fall forward and catches her weight on her hands on either side of his head. She presses her face to the side of his neck, breathing him in.

He tenses.

"Shhhh," she says. She brushes her cheek against his. She wants to rub her scent all over him, mark him with teeth and pheromones.

After a moment, his hands come up to rest tentatively on the bare skin of her waist.

"God, Nat," he says, low and rough, "You smell so--"

"I know." She lifts her head so she can see his eyes. His pupils are huge.

He rolls his hips up and she grinds down against his cock. He exhales harshly.

"Yeah, c'mon, like this," she says.

Both of them are still clothed from the waist down, like teenagers making out. Everything feels more intense than it should, Clint's hands on her skin, his cock against her clit through four layers of denim and cotton.

"Come on," she says again, and Clint bucks up helplessly, coming almost silently.

She grinds against him until her own orgasms ripples through her, warm and slow and not at all satisfying. Some quick and dirty frottage on the floor of the cell isn't going to short-circuit a heat, but some of the tension has drained out of Clint.

She sits up. Clint drapes his arm over his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. She gives him a minute and looks at Coulson instead.

Coulson's eyes are closed, and her heart clenches. She scrambles up, but before she even touches him, he opens his eyes.

"It's okay," he says, when he sees her face. "I'm okay."

"Don't--" she starts, and then stops.

"Okay," he says softly.

Clint shifts restlessly.

Natasha strips the rest of her clothes off and does the same for Clint.

He's still hard, sticky with come and other fluids. She kneels between his legs and strokes his thigh in soothing patterns.

"Hey," she says. "Are you doing all right?"

He makes a face, but nods. "Yeah, just, fuck, Nat..."

She slides her fingers back behind his balls and watches his face. He's slick and wet already.

"Do it," he says.

She slides three fingers inside him and his whole body clenches. He sucks in a great gulp of air and says, "God, more."

She pulls her hand away slowly and presses back in with four fingers. He lifts his hips, trying to fuck himself on her hand.

"Shhh, shhh," she says. He's so wet her hand is slick to the wrist and it seems effortless to tuck her thumb into her palm and push her whole hand into him.

" _Oh_ ," he says, wordless and inarticulate, and beneath it she hears Coulson's inhalation.

Clint's head falls back and his eyes close and for a long moment the three of them are perfectly still.

And then she moves her hand.

Clint starts babbling, a breathless rush of _yes, fuck, please, Nat._

She could finish him like this, and maybe that would be easier for everyone. But Clint gets ahold of himself enough to say, "Come on, Natasha, do it right, fuck me."

The words set off a roaring in her ears. She meets his gaze. His eyes are wide and dark, his face flushed red. She glances at Coulson without really meaning to. Coulson lets out a shaky breath and smiles at her. His face is pale and lined with pain, but it looks genuine.

She can't, she has to--

"Please," Clint says.

"Turn over," she says. She doesn't recognize her own voice, raw and hoarse.

Clint pulls in a deep, ragged breath and rolls onto his hands and knees.

She's hard, ready, as far gone to Clint's heat as he is. She pushes inside him in one thrust, and they both curse. His elbows give and he slumps forward, presses his forehead against his folded arms.

She strokes her palm down his side, and Coulson wraps his hand around the back of Clint's neck.

"It's okay," she says. "We've got you."

Clint shudders all over and nods.

She moves her hips, slowly at first, but neither of them want slow. She can feel something building like a tidal wave behind her eyes, in the small of her back. She can taste Clint's scent in the back of her throat, and he's hot and slick around her. She's fucking him hard enough to pull breathy little gasps out of him, her hands tight on his hips. She curls over him, sinks her teeth into the solid muscle of his back.

He jerks under her, moaning.

She comes, and it's overwhelming. Her vision greys out and white noise fills her head and it's not even pleasure, really, it's just intensity.

Clint says, "Fuck," like the breath's been punched out of him. It takes her a second or two to realize he's come, too. She's wrapped tight around him, their skin hot and slick with sweat. He's shaking, and both of them are breathing in huge, ragged pants, like they just ran a marathon. She presses her mouth to the bite mark she left on his shoulder blade, almost a kiss.

Then she makes herself let go. Clint's breath hitches when she pulls out, and she nudges him into lying down on his side, his back pressed against Coulson's leg. Coulson pets his fingers through Clint's hair. Clint blinks up at her, his face dazed and strangely open, and she has to look away.

She is exhausted, but some protective instinct won't let her sleep while Clint and Coulson are vulnerable.

She checks Coulson's wound instead. He's bled through Clint's shirt, so she folds hers up and uses it as a replacement. Coulson hisses a little when she presses the new shirt into place.

"If we don't get help soon, Clint's going to have to sacrifice his pants to the bandage cause," she says.

He doesn't say it's going to be okay, which she appreciates. She puts her pants and her bra back on and sits down within touching distance of both of them.

The blood on his shirt has spread another couple of centimeters by the time the door opens again.

She's on her feet immediately. One of the guards grabs her arm, and for just a second, she's back in the Red Room, this is a test, and she has to prove she can control herself, control her instincts--

But it's not, and she doesn't, and she slams the edge of her hand into the guard's carotid artery He drops to the ground. Clint has already leg-swept the second guard onto the floor, and the guard is not getting up again.

The third guard is the one that shot Coulson. She breaks his neck without a conscious decision.

And then she is standing in the hallway with a gun and a knife.

"Natasha," Coulson says, very calm, and she turns left, away from revenge and towards the airfield they arrived at and escape.

***

Clint steals them a helicopter.

The helicopter has a very good med kit. Clint doesn't have to give up his pants.

It also has little individual doses of morphine. She holds one up, and Coulson nods.

She gives him the morphine. She layers him with blankets and puts his head in her lap. She positions herself where she can look up and see Clint in the pilot's seat. She knows he's not really hers, but it soothes some primitive instinct.

"When was the last time you did that?" Coulson asks, already dreamy and slurred.

She thinks about it. "Istanbul." Before SHIELD, but she doesn't have to tell him that.

"For a mission?"

It's not quite a question, but she nods. She brushes a few strands of hair, sticky with sweat, off his forehead. She says, "They thought the same thing SHIELD does, you know -- that alphas make bad soldiers and spies. We had to prove we could overcome our biology. That we could give up an omega, not protect them from our superiors, even fight them if we were ordered to."

"And did you?" Coulson asks. "Prove it?"

The morphine must be getting to him, because he should know the answer. "They let me live, didn't they?"

"Ah," he says, and it's probably the morphine that makes him sound sad, too.


End file.
